Just Love Harder

I haven’t posted here in a while. I have all sorts of ideas for blog posts, but I’ve been in sort of a processing phase, not a sharing phase. April and May are a mine field of sad anniversaries and triggers for me. I tend to pull into myself and go into autopilot at times like that. It takes so much mental energy just to function—it doesn’t leave much left for anything that requires brain power.

But I couldn’t let May 31^st go by without recognizing Ethan’s 29^th birthday. My entire body ached today, especially my arms. I felt the phantom weight of the baby I held for the first time all those years ago. And I could feel the pressure of his adult body in my arms when I imagined myself giving him a birthday hug.

I told my friends that it feels impossible to miss somebody this much. Only a mother who has lost a child can imagine the depths and lengths of this longing. But today I don’t want to share the pain of Ethan’s death. I want to remember the sweet bookend at the other end of his life. The morning he came into the world and I became a mother.

I think every mom likes to share her story of becoming a mother for the first time. I’m not sure everyone likes to listen to those stories, but here’s mine, for what it’s worth. 😊

On the afternoon of Sunday May 30, 1993, I was out running errands with my siblings. It was a warm afternoon and there was a homeless man standing on the median of the road holding a sign asking for food. I pulled into the grocery store across the street and we put together a bag of groceries for the man on the highway. A couple of decades later, that child I was carrying would be buying groceries for people every chance he got. I love that serendipity.

While we were waiting in the checkout line, I realized I’d been having contractions. I was already 8 or 9 days past my due date, so it wasn’t a total surprise, more of a jolt of excitement. We finished our errands and I went home to start timing the contractions that were becoming stronger as the hours went by.

I knew that walking would keep labor moving along, so I walked all evening long. I’d go out for a mile or so, then come home to rest. Soon, I’d head back out to walk the city streets again. My dad took on the role of the official contraction timer because he was the only one who had a watch. By 10 or 11 p.m. I thought it might be time to get to the hospital. My mom, my siblings, a friend and I piled into my little car and we drove downtown to the hospital.

I was only about 3 centimeters dilated when we arrived, so I started walking. Again. This time I traced the hospital corridors. I remember a nurse scolded me for walking around in my bare feet. I don’t remember why I thought it was a good idea to walk around in my bare feet in the first place.

As the night wore on, I tried to rest, but by that time I was in serious labor pain. What I did then was what I still do when the pain is intense…I pull into myself and go into autopilot. I didn’t need an epidural or medication during the birth of any of my sons. When I pull deep into myself, I’m able to create a place apart from the pain. It’s a wonderful short-term ability, but it doesn’t serve me well when I spend too long in that place. As awful and unbearable as it may seem, pain needs to be felt before it will dissipate. Doesn’t matter how long I try to hide away from it…it will be there waiting with ferocious intensity when I come up for air.

Early in the morning of May 31^st, I puked from the pain. At that point I wanted to change my mind. I did not want to have a baby after all. But the nurse told me that puking was a sign that it was time to push. Maybe she made that up, but she was right. There was no turning back. It was time to get that baby out and see if it was a boy—which I was convinced of—or a girl.

At 8:20 a.m., with my mom holding one of my hands and my sister holding the other, I gave one last push and the most perfect baby boy slid into the world. He had just a shadow of golden blonde hair and sky-blue puffy eyes. I held him against my chest and knew for the first time in my life why I was here. I had spent 23 years simply moving toward that moment. I had been only part of my self until this other part was born. We were together and we were whole.

After the baby and I were cleaned up, my mom and sister went home to get some sleep. The baby and I were alone in our room. The day outside was gray and rainy. I had a bowl of Cheerios before trying to feed my son for the first time. I had read a shelf full of books about pregnancy, labor, and breastfeeding, and it had all served me well so far. I reached back to remember everything I had read about nursing, and after a few tries the kid and I figured it out.

I talked to him while he ate his first breakfast. I told him my name and told him what I’d decided to call him. I made a lot of promises to him but also asked him to go easy on me when I inevitably screwed up. I told him I loved him more than I even expected to. More than I truly thought anyone could love anyone else. And those are the words I told him nearly 27 years later when he was dying and on the other end of a phone.

In all those years in between, I didn’t always show my love perfectly. I said mean, ugly things and I yelled in anger more times than I’d like to admit. But I can say without any reservation that my son knew he was loved from the moment I first lost myself in his eyes until he left this world. And I knew he loved me. Every minute of every day. That love is still part of me. Possibly, it’s the biggest, deepest, brightest part of me.

Every cell in my body, every breath that I take, every full moon, every cloudless blue sky. I love you, Ethan Giovanni McDonnell. Happy birthday to the boy who made me a mother. Every good thing about me grew out of loving you.